Drawing Comfort
by Starlita
Summary: In canon, it is definite that Dean Thomas is a talented artist. But why? How did he bacome interested in art in the first place? This flash-back answers that question... and also allows us to see what Dean's childhood was like.


The door slams.  
  
The small boy instantly jumps up. He doesn't need to be told anymore. He used to wait, to stay where he was to see if it would happen. He would stay frozen, hoping and wishing as hard as he could...  
  
But now he goes straight away. If he stays, it tends to be worse. He tends to be involved.  
  
As he hears shoes being kicked off in the hallway, he makes a run for it. He runs lightly up the stairs and into his bedroom. The bedroom door is closed and he is circled up under the bedclothes before they can even start.  
  
He does not like his bedroom. The large soft toy bears, fish and dragons that lie on the floor and on shelves around his walls seem to leer at him, their shadows magnified up to the ceiling. His clock radio's large luminous display bounces off the opposite wall, the glowing light filling the darkening room.  
  
"MY fault?! How the hell is it my fault?!"  
  
It's started. He curls up tightly, burying underneath his blankets, eyes screwed up, his hands over his ears. If he can't hear it... if he blocks everything out...  
  
"You're so fucking selfish!"  
  
"Oh really? Of course, it's all MY fault! EVERYTHING'S my fault, isn't it?"  
  
The little boy fumbles under the covers, his small hands scrabbling through the sheets. Finally he pulls out an old brown teddy bear, with one eye missing and his stuffing falling out. He always hides him in the bed. He was bought by Daddy, and if Mummy finds him, there tends to be a row.  
  
Everything goes quiet. He can hear their voices suddenly becoming hushed.  
  
"Stop shouting! For God's sake, you'll wake Dean up!"  
  
The little boy clasps his bear yet tighter. If they come up... if they check...  
  
"Oh, and I suppose you haven't done that already?"  
  
Their voices pick up now, becoming louder and louder as time goes on. The boy rolls over and watches the luminous clock, waiting for them to stop. All he can do is wait.  
  
Ten minutes pass. Then another ten. Their voices still travel up the stairs, through the floorboards, through the walls...  
  
"Really? Well, in that case, why don't we just end it all now then?"  
  
The boy has heard that before. It usually means that the row is beginning to end. He silently mouths the words his parents are now saying downstairs. He had heard them so many times; he virtually knows them off by heart.  
  
"You know why... I don't want to upset Dean... he's desperate for a stable environment..."  
  
"And you think this every evening is stable for him?"  
  
"He's asleep, he can't hear us now."  
  
No, I'm not, the small boy thinks over and over again. I'm not asleep, stop shouting....please... please...  
  
"Well, what else can we do, for Christ's sake?"  
  
"We'll just have to battle it out. Every marriage has its problems."  
  
"Well, if you would just help a bit more..."  
  
They've started again. The small boy curls up in a tight ball, completely hidden by his blankets. He hears something smash downstairs. His hands clap over his ears and he starts to shake.  
  
Please let them stop... please let it be over...  
  
Finally, their voices die away. He slowly uncurls, taking his hands away from his ears. He hears footsteps, crying and slammed doors. Then there is silence.  
  
Shaking, the small boy looks around his now dark room. Everything is still. Slowly, he lowers himself out of bed. On the floor is some paper, wax crayons and a rubber. Although his room is lit only by his clock, the little boy still begins to feverishly sketch out a design. It is always the same. After the fights, he always draws exactly the same thing, with the same colours and same shapes.  
  
It is a house, with four windows and a front door in the middle. On either side of the door are a mother and father, beaming at a small dark-haired boy beside them. The small boy is also smiling, and is carrying a tiny sketchbook in his right hand. Although the idea is basic, the drawing is actually fairly advanced for a child of that age. Still, he has had plenty of practice. The boy adds grass beneath the house. He adds clouds, birds and a bright yellow sun in the white space above the house. The sky.  
  
The small boy returns to bed, feeling slightly better. He does not understand why, but drawing seems to help when this happens. It gives him an odd rush of energy. Now it is finished however, the buzz he had gained was beginning to fade. He does not want it to fade. He cannot let it fade...  
  
His eyes prick with tears. He quickly closes them, and hides underneath his blankets, hugging his bear. He hopes this will stop them... But his tears continue fall behind closed eyelids, and he buries his face into his bear, hoping no-one will hear.  
  
Eventually he becomes tired. His eyes dry and he allows them to close. As the sound of heavy breathing and various electrical appliances fill the eerie silence of the house, little Dean Thomas drifts into an uneasy sleep, hoping that maybe tomorrow, things will be different. 


End file.
